


Angel Down

by justcallmeasmodeus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Series Ending, Angst, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Season 15 divergence, seriously guys it’s dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:20:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28685484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justcallmeasmodeus/pseuds/justcallmeasmodeus
Summary: Cas takes on the Mark of Chuck, and Dean tells a lie.Dean was waiting for his love to run out. He was waiting for that moment he would look at Cas and no longer see his future, no longer see stability. He was waiting for the guilt to subside, but instead he was drowning.“Would you condemn the world for the love of two people?” Sam had asked one night after Cas had electrified an entire lake to kill a Rawhead, and then resurrected all of the fish.“It’s Cas.” Dean had answered, as though it in itself was an answer.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 7





	Angel Down

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this oneshot after seeing a preview which eluded to possibly using a Mark of Cain alternative to lock up Chuck. I ran with it. As much as this hurts, I wish they had done this instead.

It wasn’t something that had hit him out of nowhere, a life-changing bolt of lightning sent from Zeus. Rather, it was something that came second nature, a reaction rather than revelation, akin to how the human brain knows instinctively to take in oxygen. Dean had heard somewhere you couldn’t successfully drown yourself, and while he had never put that to the test himself, he knew trying to stop loving Castiel would feel about the same, and that he had put to trial. Time and time again they had pushed each other away, been torn apart, lost to the other, but in the end, they always came back together.

“It has to be you.” Cas’s gruff voice was loud compared to the soft clinks of spell ingredients hitting the bowl. Dean huffed, not answering an unspoken question he refused to acknowledge. He tore herbs mechanically, losing himself in the instructions on the aged paper to his left. Cas reached out and laid a hand on top of his, and Dean noticed his own hands were trembling. “Dean.” The tone was soft and commanding, tearing Dean’s gaze from his hands and directing it to deep blue eyes. “Promise me. It has to be you.”

“It’s not going to come to that Cas.” _It can’t come to that._

“Dean.” Cas’s hand grasped Dean’s wrist, warm and grounding. 

Dean’s throat burned with the effort of holding back a sob. He willed his eyes dry, his stare burning holes into the countertop, unable to meet Castiel’s gaze without a complete breakdown. The weight of the silence caused his shoulders to sag, unspoken words pushing in on him from every angle.

“Okay.” The word was vile on his lips, clinging to his throat, but he forced it out. Cas smiled softly at him, and Dean clung to it, a life preserve in an ocean of uncertain, doomed outcomes. 

————

Dean’s fingers traced the raised scar on Castiel’s arm as it lay draped across his abdomen. The dark pressed in, heavy with the thoughts racing around his mind. The scar was warm, and for a moment Dean imagined it was throbbing beneath his fingers with a heartbeat all its own, a living thing he could kill. He bit his bottom lip to stop its trembling, hyper-aware of Castiel lying awake beside him, despite his deep and steady breathing. 

His arm burned with phantom pains, his own Mark five years gone, and he tried to match his own breathing to Cas’s before the panic and anxiety could lock its claws into his chest. He knew that he should be happy; Chuck was locked away, the world once again lay blissfully safe and ignorant at the feet of the Winchesters, but now _his_ world was in danger. A time bomb lay beside him, locked and loaded, with an invisible countdown and an inaudible tick.

“Dean.” Cas’s voice was tender, whispered into his ear in the dark. “Something is bothering you.”

Dean swallowed hard, trying to force down the irrational emotions threatening to overflow. He inhaled, slow and deep, holding his breath, grasping at the illusion of control. 

Castiel shifted, and Dean knew he was propped up on his elbow, blue eyes piercing through the darkness and searching his face. Dean let go, hot tears rolling down his cheeks as he exhaled through his nose. 

“What is it?” Cas reached out and touched Dean’s shoulder. 

Dean could easily predict the way Cas’s brow always furrows when he’s confused, the way his head always tilts, his eyes squinting; and he couldn’t stop the desperate laugh that dissolved into a sob. He was reminded of all the times he’d glance over while they were watching a movie, or the stolen glances in the rearview mirror while they were on a case and he’d just made a comment that Castiel doesn’t understand — the ones that seem to happen fewer and fewer as they spent more and more time together. 

“I’m so sorry Cas.” Dean’s voice cracked, the final wall crumbling beneath a tidal wave of pain. 

He couldn’t stop the flood, couldn’t hold on anymore as the words tumbled from his lips.

He reached to anchor himself to the solid body beside him. 

“It shouldn’t happen like this. You shouldn’t have to fight this. I shouldn’t have to… to lose…” Dean tightened his grip, his tongue unwilling to speak the unimaginable.

“Oh, Dean,” Cas lowered his body back onto the bed, wrapping his arms around Dean’s shuddering form and pulling him close. He pressed his lips to the side of Dean’s head as he cried against his neck, murmuring assurance and wordless comforting sounds. 

Dean wasn’t sure how long he cried; it seemed like a lifetime had passed, and in the inky blackness of the windowless bedroom, time was but an illusion. 

“Do you remember the time I used the Leviathans to become God?” Cas whispered into the dark once Dean had begun to calm.

“As if I would ever let you live down the first time you nearly destroyed the world by yourself.” Dean couldn’t see Cas, but he knew that he was smiling.

“What about the time I became human?”

Dean didn’t verbally answer, merely shifted uncomfortably; it hadn’t been one of his finest moments.

“Or the time you carried the Mark? The time you were a demon? The time Lucifer killed-“

“What’s your point Cas?” Dean’s voice was heavy again, but he didn’t have it in him to cry anymore. 

“We’ve been through tough spots before. We’ll get through this one. I have faith in you, Dean Winchester.”

Dean felt Cas shift until he was leaning over him, and Dean could feel that look Cas gave him, a mix of pure adoration and unwavering faith, the one Dean didn’t believe he deserved, the one that said Cas believed the stars were merely the sky’s imitation of the freckles dusted across his nose, the one that made Dean shiver. 

Because in that look, a being who had been around to see the world spun into existence saw Dean as the most beautiful creation. Dean swallowed with what he was sure was an audible click, a vain attempt to choke down the lump in his throat.

“Promise?” 

Dean felt like a child, a frail paper doll, as if one wrong move would tear him into unfixable pieces. Cas pressed his lips to Dean’s, and Dean lost himself in the steady warmth, the presence of him, the constant. With a thousand touches Castiel promised, until Dean’s mind stopped racing, until all Dean could think about was now, until he slept. 

———

Dean clutched the boy to his chest, putting himself between the child and the danger. He pressed the boy’s head in the crook of his shoulder, murmuring comfort that was drowned out by the screams coming from behind him. He rocked back and forth, whether for his own comfort or the boy’s he wasn’t sure. The boy’s name came to him in a flash of thought — Dylan — and he collected himself enough to remember to warn him as he felt the telltale change in the atmosphere of the room, a crackle of static that he could never be sure was actually sounding or just imagined. 

“Close your eyes, Dylan. Close your eyes.”

Dean squeezed his own eyes shut, pressing Dylan’s head even tighter to his body, and suddenly the world was red beneath his closed lids. He felt a warm, thick splatter against his back, heard the droplets splash in the sudden silence. Dylan was crying, but alive, and Dean held on to that as a win. Dean cracked his eyes open, blinking away spots as the glow in the room faded. He looked over his shoulder at Castiel, internally wincing as he stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, eyes and Mark still white with diminishing power. 

Dean shook away the thought that bringing Cas on hunts was like bringing an A-Bomb to a water-gun fight. He pushed away the uncertainty of whether or not the use of power was helping Cas control his urges or making them worse. He studied Sam’s pale face, the terror in his brother’s eyes that he prayed wasn’t mirrored in his own. 

The whiskey made it easier to pretend. The way Castiel touched him in the dark made it easier to believe. How Castiel still loved him made it easier to lie.

———

The girl was screaming, and Dean knew she wouldn’t stop. He had learned long ago, in the ghost of a deeply buried past, that when a person was skinned, they never stopped screaming. He watched, transfixed, as her muscles flexed against the bonds that held her, shiny with still pumping blood. Her eyes rolled in her head, desperate for lids to clamp shut, but they lay upon the dirty, bloodstained floor, nothing more than two pieces of flesh upon a pile of stained ivory skin. He could see a red hair ribbon still tied around her soft brunette curls, now flowing out of a deflated scalp. 

Her eyes locked on him, unbridled terror giving way to a focused desperation. Her mouth opened and she tried to speak, but she had no tongue or lips left to form words. Fresh drops of blood splattered on the ground as she groaned, and it was a sound Dean didn’t need words to translate. He was back in training, standing before Alistair’s victims, learning the most unspeakable talents, his gut twisting at the ease with which he wielded these weapons, guilt laying heavy on his shoulders at the desperate need for praise. 

_Please, please kill me before he comes back._

But they weren’t in Hell, Alistair was dead, and this time Dean’s hands were empty. Clean and empty. 

A door shut behind them, tearing her stare from Dean, her screaming starting again at their company. Dean turned, the blood draining from his face as he took in the familiar suit, the deep blue eyes, the Mark bright red against the skin of a forearm that had cradled his head on countless nights. 

Dean jolted awake, his heart galloping in his chest, his blood cold, the screams still surrounding him. His screams surrounding him. Dean clamped his mouth shut, teeth digging painfully into his bottom lip as he forced himself back into reality. He reached out for Cas, adrenaline shooting through his veins as his hand fell on a cold bed.

Dean threw the sheets back, stepping into a pair of boxers and grabbing his robe on his way through the door. The slaps of his bare feet echoed down the empty halls, quickening as his mind played over the worst of what he might find, his most recent nightmare included. Every empty room, every unanswered call pushed him faster, until he finally came to the room he avoided the most. Inside was another Ma’Lak box Castiel had insisted they build, and here Dean found him, sitting next to it, eyes, hand, and Mark glowing as he added or strengthened its wards yet another night. 

Dean let out the breath, the ever-building pressure of anxiety deflating with it. He clenched his fists to stop the tremble of fear in his hands. 

“Dean?” Concern softened Cas’s voice, and Dean’s shoulders dropped a little more. Here was his Cas, the Cas that made it easy to pretend, the angel that cushioned the lies. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I just…” Dean stumbled over his words, unwilling and unable to admit his fears completely. “I woke up and you weren’t there.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” 

The silence between them was thick. Castiel opened his mouth, looking from Dean to the Ma’Lak box, an explanation on the top of his tongue, and Dean pleaded for him not to speak. They were tiptoeing around the elephant in the room, and Dean was certain that with any wrong word it would trample him. 

“Would you like me to come back to bed with you?” 

Dean’s knees felt weak with relief, and suddenly the box seemed like a looming monster. He felt as though it was sucking the air out of the room, and he wanted to rescue Cas from it, take him far away from here, but he knew it brought Cas a sense of comfort, to be warding and rewarding his tomb. 

“No, that’s okay. I don’t think I’m going to be sleeping much anymore anyway. I’ll be in the kitchen with some coffee.”

He left the room without waiting for a reply, forcing himself to walk calmly away from the room. 

Sam found Dean in the kitchen, a mug of cold coffee between his hands. The clock on the coffee maker read 6:03am, and Dean had watched every minute of the last two hours tick by wasted, felt them drip through his hands like water. Yet he was utterly unable to move, to read, to be of use. He watched another minute tick over, felt another pebble of guilt land on his shoulders. 

“You okay?” Sam’s voice was cautious because Sam’s words were dangerous. Sam was sharpened rationality, and Dean had no armor left. 

“We were supposed to have time.” Dean’s voice was low and level, his knuckles white around his mug. 

“We still have time, Dean.”

Another lie, another false hope. They hung like strings in the air, and Dean was tangled in their web, not sure anymore if he was unable to get out or just unwilling. The truth danced on top, ready to devour him where he lay entrapped. Dean lifted his mug and brought it down hard on the counter. He felt the crack, watched helplessly as his coffee began to seep out, drop by drop beneath his hands, pooling on the cool steel before spilling off the edge. 

He felt like he was watching a supermotion of his angel, losing himself drop by drop out of a crack that wasn’t his fault, no matter how hard Dean tried to keep him together. He held on, willing the coffee to stop until the mug was empty. He shook the foreshadowing from his mind, and he cleaned up his mess, just like he promised. 

He walked out of the kitchen, dirty cracked mug in hand. 

Sam said nothing. 

———

Dean was waiting for his love to run out. He was waiting for that moment he would look at Cas and no longer see his future, no longer see stability. He was waiting for the guilt to subside, but instead he was drowning. 

“Would you condemn the world for the love of two people?” Sam had asked one night after Cas had electrified an entire lake to kill a Rawhead, and then resurrected all of the fish.

“It’s Cas.” Dean had answered, as though it in itself was an answer. 

“Not anymore, Dean.” Sam watched Cas over Dean’s shoulder, and even still Dean could tell Sam’s eyes were focused on the Mark. “Not anymore.”

Still Dean waited, searching in vain, barely holding a monster at bay with lies, building walls out of plaster filler instead of stone. He pushed and prodded until they were standing on the edge, and then he jumped. He jumped without fear, because for so long Cas’s wings had been there to catch him. But broken wings do not fly.

The grit on the ground bit into Dean’s palms as they took the brunt of his fall. It smelled strongly of iron, and cooling blood was gathering in puddles around them. Dean heaved himself back on to his feet, gaining his balance moments before Cas slammed into him. He hit the wall, his head thudding against the concrete and causing dark spots to dance across his line of sight. 

Cas’s hand wrapped around his throat, and began to squeeze. Dean stared into the face before him, the face of a monster. There was nothing left of his Cas, the real Cas. He had pushed him on for too long, begged him to keep up the lie, but now he had to face the truth.

“Cas,” he choked, gasping, “I’m so sorry.” Castiel’s skin gave with a pop as the knife slid in, the potion on its blade immobilizing him long enough for Dean to get free and snap the Archangel shackles into place. “I lied.”

———

Hearts don’t break, Dean Winchester has learned this just as he learned that ghosts can’t cross salt rings, demons can’t drink holy water, and shifters can’t wear silver. 

He knows life would be easier if they did. 

Souls break, minds break, wills break. But hearts? They take a lick and keep on beating. They bleed, and ooze, and crack, but they never fully break. They ache deep inside, in a place where even the burn of whiskey can’t reach. Sometimes time can scab the wound, heal them until only a fine scar remains as an ever-constant reminder, just another line in the story of life. 

But not all wounds close; some keep seeping, pump after pump pushing out drop after drop, each thump an agitation to an ever festering jagged hole, right up until the end. Dean watched his reflection appear on the water, a ghostly image of someone he didn’t know how to be.

A tear dropped from Dean’s cheek and chased the metal box, just another drop in the ocean.


End file.
